


Solo Act

by ScriptedAssimilation



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Aged up characters, Doomed Timelines, Fantasizing, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Plot What Plot, Rough Sex, Sex Toys, Sexual Content, Shameless Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-25
Updated: 2014-08-25
Packaged: 2018-02-14 15:28:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,673
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2196993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScriptedAssimilation/pseuds/ScriptedAssimilation
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Existing in a doomed timeline gets boring, fast.  You have to find ways to entertain yourself.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Solo Act

            This is a horrible idea. And not just the unpacking the toys part, though that was a stupid mistake too.  Because now they're out and staring you straight in the face, all pink and pliable, making you bite your lip and clench your thighs together.  You pull off your pants anyway.  Fuck, are your fingers trembling?  Yeah, they are; this is pathetic, you can’t even masturbate right.

            Still, you settle down and thumb hesitantly at your waistband.   Unlike any other teenager in existence, you’re kind of new at this.  You had only jerked yourself off once or twice pre-game, terrified of leaving a trace of red behind, and thus essentially fucking yourself to death.  Heat cycles had kicked in on the meteor though, and you'd been forced to get nook deep comfortable with you blood color.

            Now you're almost nine sweeps, and dead to boot.  You may as well indulge a little.

            So you're lying in your 'human bed', two gummy vibrators in your hand, trying to get over the fear you've trained into yourself.  It’s surprisingly hard to get horny with all the residual, now irrational, fear residing in your think pan.  One hand is in your hair, gently tugging the roots, ghosting fingernails over your horn, the other shimmied its way down the front of your boxers, massaging your sheath.  You settle into a slow rhythm for a few minutes, purring at the sensation thrumming through your skull.  It’s calming, but not the reaction you were hoping for. 

            How do trolls normally do this?  How does one get hot and bothered?  You try thinking about your romance novels, your movies, the actors and actresses in them.  Porn, porn is good.  Obviously that’s what you need.  But that would involve calling over your crabtop, getting lots of viruses, and, eventually, crying to Captor about it.  Then the two of you would get in a bitch fight, you telling him where to shove it, he telling you to put your pretty little mouth to better use.  Oh, hello, the tip of your bulge has come out to play.

            You run your thumb over it, trying to encourage it, before, stupidly, moving to pry the bottom of your sheath, trying to expose your nook.  No luck; in fact, it kind of hurts, and your bulge starts retreating from the pressure.  Shit.  You know where this is going-you think about Captor.

            In your mind, you've got him shoved down between your knees, purring and kisses up the inside of your thigh.  He's still blind in your fantasy, which is fine with you, as it adds up to a lot more groping to get along.  He's got a hand cupping right where your lower back becomes your ass, pulling you forward, the other up the front of your shirt, rubbing tenderly at your grubscars.  You're hands are around his horns, massaging lightly, before jerking him forward into your crotch.

            He mutters something in annoyance, digging his nails in, but complies none the less, nuzzling against your sheath and crooning softly to you.  He licks at the tip of your bulge, cradling it in that freakish forked tongue of his.  Your fingers move in time with the imaginary lapping, and finally, finally, your bulge pushes all the way out of its sheath.  Maybe you can stop awkwardly rubbing one out to the thought of your best friend now, because if that isn’t fucked, you don’t know what is.  Creepy, that’s what it is.  Really fucking creepy.  Not quite corpse party creepy—even you can’t touch that level of pan fried—but this safely resides in the, ‘Seriously dude, what the actual fuck,’ realm that no good bro should ever venture into.  Bet he doesn’t fondle himself to your ugly mug.  Though you wouldn’t mind if he did.  Hell, that would actually be kind of hot.  Kind of really hot.  He’d be sitting in his desk chair; pants unbuttoned and shimmied halfway down his thighs.  His boxer would be gray, definitely gray, a very specific and familiar shade of gray, in fact.  There’s a little bit of yellow dribbling onto them already, even as he’s only now starting to hunch over.  His hands—he’d use both, of course—are busy at work, one pumping vigorously at his bulge, the other three fingers deep in his nook.  His computer pings, and he looks up, swearing, as a flood of gray text start taking over the screen.  He groans—your name is definitely on his lips, and—wait, wait, wait a sec.  Are you imagining your best bro Captor jerking off?  No, wrong, bad Karkat.  You literally just decided that gemini fantasies are out of the question.

            Setting your thoughts to neutral, you prop yourself up on one elbow, sliding your other arm down your chest in a slow movement that you suppose looks more sexy than it feels (because they do this in romcoms all the time, and it looks enticing as hell, but is doing butt fucking nothing for you in terms of pleasure).  You speed it up, splaying your fingers in front of your bulge, tensing as it latches on and twines itself through them.  You squeeze softly as it does, encouraging it to keep up its momentum.

            It loses interest fast, curling in on itself and wriggling around in hopes of finding a nook to bury itself in on. You give a deep sigh and flop back down.  Maybe you’ll have a bit more luck with your nook.  You back your legs up towards yourself and let them fall open.  Your hand leaves your bulge, and, with your index and ring fingers, you spread yourself open.  Half heartedly, you trace around your nook, hesitant to actually step things up.  You’ve never actually gone farther than this, and the thought of getting your fingers even more stained with candy red than need be isn’t exactly appealing this time either.  Fuck, there goes your bulge; the swelled organ is attempting to retreat back up your sheath, as if sensing your shame.

            God, when is this going to start feeling sexy again?

            You bite the bullet.  And by biting the bullet, you mean start being a creep again.

            This time, you imagine Sollux over you, smirking that condescending little smile the asshole always gives you.  He’s got your arms pinned by your head and his hips down against yours, bulges struggling to twine together.  He bends his head and locks horns with you, forcing your head up at an uncomfortable angle, while sliding forward on you just a tad.  You’re about to screech at him, because bulge bumping was feeling pretty awesome, and even though he has the upper hand there are some general decency rules you just got to follow, but then he grinds his nook down on you.  Hard.  You chitter and go limp as he continues to rut on you, yellow splotches painting themselves on his jeans as you watch, seeping down into yours.  Your bulge takes thrashing to a whole new level, and Captor _notices_ , laughing that infuriating laugh and lighting up at the horns.  He’s got his psionics on your bulge, _pushing it back into its sheath, holy fuck—_  

            Wait, no, that’s just your bulge struggling against your boxers.  You press pause on your fantasy, moving your hands from beside your head—wait, were you copying the position, oh fuck that’s embarrassing—to shimmy your underwear off.  You leave one hand on your thigh, the other idly tugging on your bugle.  Ok, where were you.

             Your bulges are twining together now.  He’s only got one, you decide, but it’s bifurcated, and the tips move independent of each other.  They’re double teaming you—wait, double teaming?  That sounds so fucking nasty.  Should you go there?  You’re going to go there.  It’s your god damn fantasy.

            You’re sandwiched in the middle.  The one behind you is giving you the hornjob of your life, and damn are you thankful for their nubbiness, because he’s able to take the whole fucking thing into his mouth and suck.  Your hand is trying to copy the actions, and for once it seems like your wires are working right, because every little tingle is going straight to your nook.  The front Sollux seems to notice that, because all of the sudden, his bulge is there, teasing you. You growl, and both of them laugh.  Then, together, in an only-in-your-wildest-dreams- happenstance, they both go at you at the same time.  His bulge is all the way in you, hips to hips, the other’s bulge shoved down your throat.  His tongue is on your horn.  Both horns, you decide.  Because apparently you’re not paying attention to positions being feasibly possible anymore.  (Also, when did you decide you wanted to suck his bulge?)

            Aww, fuck it.  You’ll take the damn thing like a champ, _despite_ never having sucked bulge before in your life.  Your imagination, your rules.  Positions swap, and suddenly you’re on your stomach, ass hitched into the air, bony hips pressed flush against yours.  He’s got his bulge lodged firmly in your nook, not thrusting, but twisting and thrashing hard enough to bring tears to your eyes.  The other Sollux is sitting back in front of you, legs open and bifurcated junk in your face.  He croons to you softly and wiped your eyes, before pushing your hair up out of your face, then teasing his fingers through it.  You smile at him, even as the other starts thrusting, just as rough as before, and swallow his waiting bulge down without a hiccup.  He swears, hands latching onto your horns, rocking into you just the slightest, muttering sweet, red nothings to you as he goes.  Getting fucked from both sides is overwhelming, especially with the whole red-in-front-black-in-back deal, and your bulge is starting to feel it—it almost hurts, does hurt.  The red Sollux takes pity on you, horns lighting up and a corresponding psionic vibration starts up on your bulge.

            Your eyes shoot open—wait, when did you close them.  Not important.  More important, vibrators.  You have those.  You should use them.  You sit up, grimacing at the squelching noise that comes from your nook as you move.  We’re you really that turned on?  Gross.

            You scoot over, snatching up the bullets, before resuming your earlier position.  You take one, bend it slightly in the middle, until it makes a little U shape.  You push the little button on the end that turns the vibrate on, and offer it to your bulge.

            Its interest is instant.  The tip makes contact, and your whole body jolts in oversensitivity.  Doesn’t matter though, because your bulge just secretes more nasty, transparent, red lube, and goes for it a second time.  Wrapping around the thing firmly, it all but rips it from your hand.  It mulls it over, as you twitch and arch and gasp, eventually falling into a rhythm that leaves you sighing little ‘OH”s every downbeat.

            You’re starting to see what the big thing is with masturbation.  Because this is nice.  Really nice.  You’re making lots of embarrassing noises—doing your fucking best to swallow said noises, but it’s still resulting in a lot of unintentional gasps, and whimpers.  You’re not going to last long, and for the first time ever, you’re actually kind of sorry for that.

            So you, being the bright little leader you are, decided that introducing the second vibrator is the obvious to go.  Qualms about penetration are all but thrown out the window, as you hastily shove your bulge up, out of the way, against your stomach.  It protests, squirming against your hand—you push down, hard on it, and the vibrations seem to intensify.  Are you shaking?  Yeah, shaking is definitely a thing you are doing right now.  But it’s good.  So good.  Swallowing the throaty sounds your body is trying to produce, you reach lower, splaying your nook open again.  Quickly, before the part of your mind that isn’t overdosed in sex chemicals can react, you nudge the tip of the vibrator inside of you. 

            You’re kind of surprised you barely feel it.  Ok, time for more.  Slowly, slowly, the thing sinks into you, and honestly, it’s not as great as you expected it to be.  There’s a little stretch, and it feels nice enough, you guess, but even when you push it the rest of the way in, you don’t really feel the magic.  Probably because it’s not long enough to reach your shame globes, and way too hard—nothing like a real bulge.  You press the vibration on, and there it is, you can feel the light pulse making its way up, tickling you in a way that leaves you sighing and letting your legs relax open.  You let go of your bulge, wipe the slick pink material that’s accumulated off on your belly –you’ll think about how gross that is later—and fold your hands behind your head, rubbing lazy circles around you horns.

            Fuck, this feels good.  You could probably—definitely—come from just this.  You’re pretty close now, as it is, with the two bullets vibrating away at you.  Hnn, two.  _Two_.  You hate yourself a little more for it, but you’re going back there. 

            You’re on top this time, have him bent over his desk, papers and code snippets strewn everywhere.  You’re manhandling him, shoving him this way and that.  You’ve got both his hands clasped in one of yours, held together at the small of his back.  The other is busy pushing his head down on the desk, keyboard leaving marks, no doubt, in his cheek.  He snarls at you to get on with it, wriggling his ass back against your hips.  You lean down and nip his ear, chuckling. His psionics spark, and you feel them behind you, pushing at your hips, until your bulge slides sweetly over his nook.  Captor spreads his legs wider in anticipation, bending his knees and bracing himself.   Oh, you want to slam into him.  Want to fuck him hard into the table, leave pretty yellow bruises and scratches along his hips and back.  But you don’t, you’re doing this red, just because you know he wants it black.  So you sink in slowly, making sure to give him enough time to adjust to every centimeter, making it completely painless.  His snarls are quickly being reduced to begging.  He’s panting your nickname, sparks flying off his horns and out of his eyes.  So you give him want he wants.  You rock smoothly all the way into him, and he seizes up around you, pulling you that much deeper.  You let go of his wrists, bring both your hands to his hips, and pull him into your lap as you sit down into his desk chair.  Fuck yeah, you are just that smooth.  His head droops back on to your shoulder, eyes squeezed shut as you churn within him.  He pants, and you whimper.

            Actually fucking whimper. And the sound slams you back into reality, tremors wracking your body as you finally give out.  Your bulge is thrashing on your stomach, nook clenching so hard it hurts on that stupid vibrator, really ruining the orgasm you're trying to ride.  You struggle to pull it out as you convulse, insides instantly seizing up on themselves in the best way possible the second you slip it out.  Panting and chirping, you ride the last waves, smoothing your hand through the mess on your stomach to palm your bulge, encouraging the good feelings to stick around a little longer.

            Your head falls back—you hadn’t realized you’d had it up, as the last of your orgasm melts away, leaving you with heavy breathing and a mess to remember it by.  An ablution is definitely in order.  And a change of the fucking sheets.  But for now, you’ll just catch your breath and convince yourself that no, that faint cherry smell is just in your head, and most certainly not the product of your little solo act.   

**Author's Note:**

> This is so self indulgent you don't even know. Whatever. Hope you enjoyed it.


End file.
